Celebrity Death Island
by electronic x
Summary: Now on DAY 13: Lights, camera, action! Endemol has paid various celebrities and z-lebrities to appear on the show of their lifetime! Well, quite literally since they won't last longer until they get to killing each other! Published elsewhere as well, R&R.
1. Intro

**NB: Yes, I am Jon/Wuming Shi on Yuku. This story is simultaneously published on Fantasy Games Central, so no plagiarism there. Thanks. The FGC format currently involves public voting, but I don't think that's allowed here (to give celebrities special weapons), so if you want to vote you can register as a Yuku user, otherwise, sorry.**

**Find the original thread as well as all story statistics so far here: ht.tp/fantasygamescentral.yu./topic/7889 I added .s in http and yuku.**

**No, Endemol does not actually have anything to do with this. Nor am I in anyway related to any celebrities, so I don't actually own them.**

**PROLOGUE**

In the middle of the Pacific: A little island sits by itself, way off the radar, unnoticed by ships or planes. This was previously territory of the Federated States of Micronesia, but was bought over by the Dutch company Endemol for an undisclosed sum of money. Rumour has it that Endemol will be developing their most extreme show yet: paying celebrities to appear on the show and having them kill each other off.

Who will be the last one standing?

**CONCEPT**

So I was looking through my abandoned stories and found an old storywhich was titled something stupid, but I prefer to call it Death Island, because who doesn't like the name Death Island? I've decided to redo this concept, except with less retarded writing (hopefully).

In this game, a number of celebrities will be abandoned on a mysterious island. They will have to fight to the end, as well as ward off other celebrity intruders that will be flown in on a regular basis. Each celebrity is also provided with a weapon at the start, but this is more for the sake of storytellng rather than constitute an actual impact on their survival odds.

The show progresses on a day-to-day basis: Each update will cover a day. For every update, at least 1 person will die. This is determined by a randomised name list that will be generated for each round. Viewers may also try to influence the outcome of the game, by voting for their favourite to win a special weapon every day, increasing their odds of survival. They will also have the opportunity to vote their favourite (or rather, least favourite) celebrities in.

As of now, the story will continue indefinitely, until 1) ratings go down significantly 2) we run out of celebrities to throw in 3) I get tired of writing this.

**CELEBRITIES (SO FAR)**

50 Cent

Amy Winehouse

Ashlee Simpson

Charlotte Church

Chris Crocker

Dick Cheney

Donald Trump

Jay Alexander

Joe Jonas

Kanye West

Kathy Griffin

Kevin Federline

Lance Bass

Lisa Scott-Lee

Michelle Heaton

Miley Cyrus

Nigel Barker

Paris Hilton

Pat Robertson

Peaches Geldof

Perez Hilton

Rachael Ray

Rovilson Fernandez

Rush Limbaugh

Sarah Palin

Sienna Miller

Stephen Hawking

Tara Gilesbie

Tara Reid

Tom Cruise

Tyra Banks

Victoria Beckham


	2. Round 1 Celebrity Bios

**ROUND 1 INTRUDERS: CELEBRITY BIOS**

**50 Cent** started dealing drugs when he was 12. He is now responsible for peddling what is a rubbish excuse for music, with classics like In Da Club and Candy Shop instantly turning the brains of anyone who doesn't like commercial hip-hop into mush. He has taught kids around the world the virtues of downing Cristal by the bottle, shooting your rivals in the head and slurring your words incoherently to sound more 'gangsta'. He has appeared on Celebrity Death Island to avenge himself against Kanye West, whose music at least doesn't resemble a sonic blackhole.

**Amy Winehouse** has had a rough year. It's admittedly a bit hard to feel sorry for a Grammy winner who called Katie Melua a slut, but she's repeatedly cancelled several of her gigs, been photographed rambling around in a half-naked state, and her husband was just convicted on assault charges. She even has the early-form manifestation of emphysema from abuse to her vocal cords. Amy hopes that with Celebrity Death Island, she can rehabilitate herself, or at least not die from a drug overdose.

**Dick Cheney** is, as Vice-President, one of the vital members of the Bush administration. He is a money-grubbing pig despised by many, but the power he wields is undeniable. Despite his weak physical condition, he is still very much active and in charge, as can be seen from his love of hunting trips and shooting others near the heart. It is to the relief of many around the world that his reign of terror would end soon, be it by stepping down from his current role or from Celebrity Death Island.

**Donald Trump** is a flamboyant billionaire turned mediawhore, with a range of interests from property all over the world to media extravaganzas like The Apprentice and Miss Universe. Donald has stated that if he had known what he was getting himself into, he'd have bought Endemol and force them to release him from his contract on Celebrity Death Island. Of course, the show would still continue, but now with other special guests including Julia Morley and Martha Stewart.

**Kanye West** has an ego the size of his record sales. He was once dissed by other hip-hop stars as being too bourgeois, but soon rose to prominence with his unique style and talent for remixing others' music. He has thrown some very public hissy fits about not picking up awards that were supposed to be his, and last year got into a 'feud' with fellow hip-hop artiste 50 Cent to see whose album would sell the most. Thankfully (though we use the word in a rather narrow context) Kanye beat his rival, though it only served to further inflate his self-importance.

**Lisa Scott-Lee** was a former member of the British pop band Steps, known initially for 'easy-to-dance' dance steps being packaged with their singles and music videos. After the group split up, Lisa found it hard to survive without any actual talent, and had twice resorted to threaten to quit the music industry if her comeback singles didn't reach at least #10 on the singles charts. She failed both times, and now 'works' for a living by appearing on various celebrity reality shows, most notably Dancing on Ice and CelebAir, in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable unemployment checks and career as an Asda clerk.

**Miley Cyrus** is, for all intents and purposes, the current Disney Girl in fashion, and though her skanky behaviour in real-life and the emergence of new Disney child stars threaten that position, she's still popular with anyone under 10 years old, running her mouth in real life as she does on her hit show Hannah Montana. From kissing other girls and exposing herself in cheap MySpace photos to a 'topless' photoshoot, the only thing that she has to do before firmly following in the footsteps of other teen stars, is for pictures of crack usage or confessions of lost virginity to start circulating.

**Perez Hilton** is most famous for blogging about the famous. His blog for some inexplicable reason attracts hundreds of thousands of readers everyday, eager to lap up the latest dirt that the portly one has dished up. He shamelessly whores himself out to other celebrities, often taking pictures with other wannabes. He also seems to think that plenty of male celebrities around are G-A-Y!, perhaps because he's not getting any,

**Rush Limbaugh**, firebrand right-wing radio commentator, is the hero of many radical Christians and the utter bane of anyone with any sanity or intelligence. As the conservative archnemesis of shock jock Howard Stern, His invigorative speech stirs up peoples' passions, be it their blind acceptance of his rabid nonsense or the infuriation of common sensibilities. It remains to be seen whether this trait will help him beat the rest of his competition on the island

**Sarah Palin**, governor of Alaska and now Republican Vice-Presidential candidate, enjoys tanning in the tanning bed of the Governor's office. In her spare time, she hunts animals and teaches her families about Christian virtues, including abstinence. Or maybe not. She has reinvigorated the Republican campaign with many voters gushing about how she's like their neighbour or like the model small-town American girl, not realising that there's a damn reason why their neighbour isn't in the running for any presidential position.

**Tara Gilesbie** is a 14-year-old Gothlita who slits her wrists and buys whore clothes from Hot Topic in her spare time. She is most infamous for her Harry Potter fanfiction 'My Immortal', where she gets to bang the lead characters, who have ALL turned goth and Satanist. In the style of her Mary Sue, Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way, Tara is depicted as having limpid blue eyes and raven black hair 'lyk Amy Lee'. Tara had disappeared from the Internet in recent times, but readily agreed to appear on Celebrity Death Island after being told she'd see Good Charlotte live in concert, and get a chance to kill Miley Cyrus.

**Tara Reid** is best known for appearing on American Pie. Since then, she has been known for her bad acting, man-sounding voice, fake lop-sided breasts and constant drunkeness. Her most significant recent body of work was the reality travel show Taradise, which featured Tara travelling to various exotic locales to talk about how 'cool' foreign things are, visit clubs, take off her clothes and throw up. Tara can now be seen looking haggard at your nearest red-carpet event, boozing at parties like there's no tomorrow.

**Tom Cruise** is fond of jumping on couches and going on crazy Scientology-induced rants about the ills of medication. He first acted in films when he was 17, and judging from his image and behaviour now it can be concluded he's still trying to act like he was 17. His taste in females is equally young, considering his surreal marriage to Katie Holmes, 14 years his junior. Tom Cruise is here to show that he is not a has-been, thank you very much

**Victoria Beckham**, quite possibly the most famous WAG (footballers' Wives And Girlfriends) in the world, is one half of Britain's most glamourous relationship. Despite her fondness for short skirts and expensive dresses, she quite metaphorically wears the pants in her marriage with David Beckham, and is responsible for having the poor sod move to Madrid and Los Angeles. Having recently arrived in California so that there was no more need for fake tan, the former Spice Girl wisely gave up trying to sing with a limited vocal range, focusing instead on designing clothes and courting the paparazzi.


	3. Day 0

**DAY 0**

"This is the worst reality show ever!" Victoria Beckham fumed, as she tossed and turned in her plastic seat. "Where are my caviar canapes? How about bubbly? Not even a Dom Perignon?" Her oversized sunglasses could hardly conceal the frustration on her face. "Ooh," she hissed, "I'm firing my agent as soon as I get back from this slum. I should've thought before I signed up for anything Endemol-related, yeah!"

"Hello, my lovelies! How's everyone doing?" " Everyone was startled to hear a cheery British female through the speakers. "OHMYGOSHHIDAVINA!" Lisa Scott-Lee immediately screamed, in a bid to garner herself more airtime; Davina McCall, host of the British Big Brother, could only smile weakly in return. The non-Brits in the group, which was most of them, could only stare blankly at the mug that now appeared on the television.

"Oh my gosh, who the heck are you?" Miley Cyrus rolled her eyes.

"The name's Davina, dear. That's not going to matter though, is it, when this show becomes a hit, you all end up dead and I become more famous than ANY of you! Ahahahaha!" Davina cackled.

"Uhhh... what? I thought this show was Celebrity... Love Island or something yeah." Lisa frowned. "My agent told me to sign up for it so I did. Let's see..." she fumbled through the papers in her handbag. "Yeah it says here, Celebrity Island. Hi dad! Hi mom! Hi Andy, hi Johnny, hi everyone except that cunt Michelle Heaton! I bet you're all missing me to bits, but don't worry I''ll be back soon enough to stage my 2894124930045th comeback in the music industry..."

"Yes, about that." Davina interrupted her tersely. "Our producers conveniently forgot about the 'death' part in the middle. So it's 'Celebrity Death Island'. You people should all know sex and violence sell, right? It'll be a winner, this one! Endemol will sell this show worldwide and guess what? It's going to be a monster hit! Braindead people watching idiots they idolise or hate beat each others' brains out, what's not to love?"

"You can't do this to me," Dick Cheney hissed, "I'm the President of The United States of Amerricuh - did I just say that? I mean, I'm the Vice-President of The United States of Amerricuh! You have no right to detain me here! I'm calling for an air strike this very instant."

"Well, I don't think that'll happen Mr Cheney," Davina smiled sweetly. "Endemol will be paying the American government good money to desist action. With the profits from this show, we can afford it. Besides, do you REALLY want to see your current popularity poll figures?"

There was an awkward silence. "Nope, didn't think so. Now, on to the game itself," Davina continued. "As you'll see, we've provided each of you with a survival pack: Inside, you'll find a swiss-army knife, a two-piece swimming suit, tanning lotion and a vibrator. For essential supplies, we've also thrown in vitamin supplements, a packet of crack, a complimentary six-pack of Coors Light and industrial-grade ethanol for the heavier drinkers among you. Amy, you love that, don't you?" Amy Winehouse had already pilfered through her pack for alcohol, and in her perpetual state of inebriation could only hic in agreement, then collapse into her couch.

"Each of you will also get your very own weapon!" Davina gushed. "How exciting is that? You're going to kill each other off."

"I love that!" chirped Sarah Palin.

"See, I knew that'd set the pulses of all you Yanks racing." grinned Davina. "Eventually, almost everyone is going to have to die. Alright them, I'm outta here! I'll see you in a few weeks' time, when only 1 of you possibly WON'T be leaving in a body bag! Ahahahahaha!"


	4. Day 1

**DAY 1**

Dick Cheney + Sarah Palin vs. Perez Hilton

"Hellooo!" Perez Hilton shouted, his voice echoing through the woods. The flamboyant man stood out like a sore thumb, but that was precisely his intent. Perez had decided he was going to make as many BFFs on the island as possible, hoping to add photos of them to his blog once he got off the damn place. "Anyone there?"

There was a rustle in the nearby bushes. Perez felt himself get more nervous, but nevertheless, he decided to try for the carrot rather than the stick. "Heyyy there! Want to be BFFs?"

He was interrupted by the zing of a rifle pellet embedding itself into a nearby tree. A startled Perez jumped up and screamed. "Why the fuck are you doing this? I've got a weapon, and I'm not afraid to use it!" He brandished the taser in his hand; it wasn't much, but it'd have to do.

A svelte figure stood up from behind a shrub; Sarah Palin was there with a hunting rifle in her hands. "I'm sorry, but it's God's will. You are a sinner, and abomination."

"Oh?" There was a tone of defiance in Perez's voice. "What about the time when you banged your husband before marriage, got pregnant and eloped with him? How much of a sinner are you?"

"Listen," Palin snapped. "I'm a believer, and God will forgive me for whatever sins I have committed. I'm not like you, you're a heathen. Jezebel."

"Well it's not just you, your entire family is trailer trash. How about your slut daughter? She was underaged, she banged some guy and got knocked up. So much for being Christian -"

With an enraged scream, one of a mother doing what she could to protect her daughter, Sarah Palin pulled the trigger on her rifle, sending a cartridge deep into Perez Hilton's chest. Perez stumbled backwards into a pile of leaves, moaning in anguish. "You - nutjob - " he gasped.

"Stop talking about yourself," the strains of an elderly voice were heard by both of them. Dick Cheney emerged, with flamethrower nozzle in hand. "Good job Sarah, now let's have this piece of trash burn in Hell," he rasped.

He engaged the flamethrower to maximum power, its beautiful blue flames blasting out like an angry dragon, scorching a shrieking Perez in his fat, charring the skin, then the bones, and in the span of a few minutes leaving nothing but ash and soot behind.

"I like the smell of burning fags," smirked Cheney.

--

_Perez_ is dead. Sarah will take the taser.


	5. Day 2

**DAY 2**

Tara Gilesbie vs. Tara Reid

_Hi ma name iz Tara Gilesbe n im 14 yr old an i hv raven dark hair lyk Amy Lee down to mwaists wif green red and purpl streeks. i m goffic n i haz 1 red n 1 purple contact lens, i hv pale skin with white fundation n i likz to shop at Hot Topic. im wearin a lether bra in a black tan top wif 666 in silver sparkles were my boobs r n a short black skirt so all da hot goth boyz could see mah leggs n blak letha thong. im also werin pink fishnet stockings n black boots from Hot Topic ok. all da fucken preps on fanfiction think im a slut but im not, im a goth n i haf 2 piercings on each ear n ma bf (justin u r da luv of mah deprezzin life U ROK!!) he haz a lip ring so hez goffik u stupid prepz!!_

_ma life iz fukken deprezin i hate mah parentz i hate every1. i wuz born to vampyr perents but my mother died b4 i wuz born so i get relly sad thinkin abt it. my parents now r prepz n dey listen to prep stuff lyk karen cleopetra or whateva da fuck her name iz, abba n rod stoort. i go to hischool n all da prepz make mi sick, deyre slutty n deyre jelous of me cuz im skinny wif big boobs. ppl alwayz tell me im skinny n lyk i hv anorexxia or somethin, but in a gd way not a nicole richie way. i scremed at my parentz n ran away frm home cuz i wanted to change my name to Desdemona Ca'tastrophe Pneumonia Way (Way geddit lyk Gerard Way OMG hez fukin hot) n dey didn so i went n slit my ristz n dey got relly mad. i sexily took dere money n spent it in Hot Topic on blak clothes. da world sux, y m i so perfect n y r all da fucken preps hate me so muc._

_im on celebrity deff island bcuz im a goff n i luv deaf n blood. i also wanna kill tt fucken prep bitch miley cyrus She wearz pink n her voice makez me wnna cut maself. i hate da sun cuz im a goffik vampirre gurl so i hid unda a tree. i was bored so i slit my rists wif a swiss army knife. i thot abt how sad ma life wuz n i took out sumthin from mah bag, it waz a steak (geddit vampirez cant die unlezz dey get killd wif a staek). i wantd to kill myself bt i rellized i wnted 2 kill maley cirus 1st so i sang bring me 2 lyf by evanesnse den i wuznt so deprezzed animo._

Tara Reid, meanwhile, was spazzing out on the beachside. "ROCK ON!" she screamed, her breath reeking of alcohol. The disoriented girl tripped and fell flat into the sand face first, where she lay pondering about her life thus far. After her most prominent role in American Pie, she had spent the rest of her life acting in critical and box-office flops. She felt lost, spaced out - then she considered her options, very slowly, trying to fight her way out of her stupour. If she'd manage to survive everything, killing all her rivals and whatnot, not only would she become more famous as the winner of Celebrity Death Island, but she'd also get rid of most of her competition in Hollywood, and then she'd get better roles then she currently had.

To just let go, party the rest of her life away, that was such a tempting option too though. She didn't really need to do that much to get through the remaining decades, even if it meant being perenially labelled a has-been. Tara was conflicted. Maybe she'd get on rehabilitating herself, but first she'd have to cure her hangover. She remained slumped, her dull head feeling the heat from the bright, bright sun.

She didn't know that another lost soul was staring at her warily: Tara Gilesbie creeped ever so closely. In her mind, she had registered another dumb blonde prep slut whose miserable existence required termination. She wasn't Miley Cyrus, but she'd have to do. Britney? Jessica? She wasn't sure, she hadn't quite seen this girl before, but she looked completely busted. Tara something, some drunk ho. In any case, there was only going to be room for 1 Tara on the island. Slowly, her hand reached out the weapon that Tara Reid had carelessly thrown aside.

By the time Miss Reid's mind registered what had happened, it was too late.

BRRT! BRRRT! BRRRT!

Round after round from the uzi fired into Tara Reid's head and neck, tearing her facial features into bits. A few bullets made their way into a jugular, causing the blood to shoot out like the Jet d'Eau, straight into the face of Tara Gilesbie, goth girl supreme and now reborn killer vampire. Tara savoured the red liquid of life and death spurting onto her lips, it energised her and gave her new cause to live.

OMFG I KYLLED A PREP.

It was not to be for Tara Reid.

--

_Tara_ (Reid) is dead. Tara (Gilesbie) has minor injuries from slitting her wrists but is otherwise fine, and will take the uzi.


	6. Round 2 Celebrity Bios

**INTRUDERS ROUND 2: CELEBRITY BIOS**

**Jay Alexander**, the self-styled runway diva extraordinaire on America's Next Top Model, has become increasingly unbearable as the seasons passed. From the fierce, fabulous and mysterious coach of early seasons, his increased air time and particularly judging panel spot have shown what a stupid, used-up attention whore he is, particularly when he does something ridiculous to his clothes every season in relation to how many girls are left.

**Michelle Heaton**, British glamour model and sometime lip-syncher, was a former member of the pop band Liberty X, cruelly dubbed 'Flopstars' when they first emerged in the music scene. She married Lisa's brother Andy 'Unemployment' Scott Lee in October 2006, only to split up recently due to her slutting around with other men. She also enraged Lisa by announcing the marriage to OK! magazine before the family itself. Her current life consists of bearing her cleavage, boobs and complete personal life to OK! magazine.

**Nigel Barker**, asshole noted fashion photographer on Top Model, is the eye candy of the judging panel, and is also fond of whining about the photos and particularly slating 1 girl each season. Most female (and gay) audiences of the show have a love-hate attitude towards Mr Barker: Often, they think Nigel should just stop drinking the haterade and shut up, and go to panel in more revealing outfits.

**Rachael Ray** has all the charm of a rotting pastrami sandwich. The celebrity chef started out hosting 30 Minute Meals, but really took off when Oprah gave her her own daytime talk show, where she takes the opportunity to dish up some very nasty-looking concoctions and interrupt her guests by gurning about herself. If you think she's "Yum-O!", may we advise you that she's as greasy as a bottle of EVOO (don't you know what that means? it's Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Mind you, she repeats this every time she says 'EVOO', so much so that we wonder if the acronym was necessary at all.)


	7. Day 3

**DAY 3**

Dick Cheney + Sarah Palin vs. Jay Alexander + Nigel Barker

The thrill of the kill made adrenaline surge through Dick Cheney's geriatric frame. He had initial doubts about teaming up with a woman, but Sarah Palin had proved a most useful choice. She was close to a man, in the way she loved the game of hunting and her amazing marksmanship. Killing Perez Hilton 2 days back had set their blood racing with the excitement of the hunt, and how fitting it would be that the fresh meat on the island included a new homosexual for them to finish off. He was elated, doing what he knew he was good at, as was Sarah, who had cheered up considerably after Perez had gone down in flames.

For a second, his thoughts turned back to his family: his daughter, Mary. What if she were on the island too, but as the child of someone else? He loved Mary with all his heart, but he'd still be killing her off, knowing her as gay and not as the lovely Mary. Dick gritted his teeth and quickly banished that thought: Why was he even considering that question? He'd learned that to claw your way to the top, you have to be callous and you'd have to play the game. Such was the hard nature of life.

The Republican duo were now pacing quietly through the woods, on the lookout for others that might be roaming about. Anyway, the weight of the fuel tank was hard on Dick's back, and he could only move at a slow speed.

Then, the interruption to their game plan.

BANG! A single bullet was all it took. And then a roaring fireball from the ignited fuel pack, sending Dick straight into the hard earth, most of his body burnt to the bone. It was a state where he hardly felt anything, the muscle, skin tissue and nerves had all been scorched away, giving him a grotesquely waxy appearance. Sarah Palin was flung back as well, her skull crashing against a blunt piece of rock.

From behind the bushes, Jay Alexander stood up, jumping in joy. "OH MY GOD HA-LEH-LUYAH! IT WORKED!" He swung his mini pistol around like a madman. Sarah, her vision blurry as she regained consciousness, watched the frantic dance of Miss Jay with a sense anger rising up her throat. Her body searing from the burns and her head split open, she struggled to hold her rifle in place, firing as best as she could in the pain.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Miss Jay, in his glee, had not noticed Sarah with her rifle; the 2nd bullet flung itself into his right hand, causing him to release his pistol in pain. The 3rd bullet then caught his left calf, and he fell to the ground shrieking. "You're done for, you stupid piece of shit," Sarah snarled, and she now focused on taking aim on a helpless, paralysed Miss Jay. "Steady, Sarah, steady. Bloody homo is on a one-way ticket to hell. Take aim." Her finger rested on the trigger, impatient to pull it, but being perfectionist she shifted the rifle just a nudge to the right first. "Okay, okay. Here goes..."

And then as she was about to pull the trigger, something cold and terrible choked her in the neck, squeezing the life out of her. Her face blue with panic and fright, Sarah fired multiple rounds into the air, but to no avail. She was struggling, body writhing, waving her rifle in the air to try and hit her assailant, who had caught her with her own metal chain.

Nigel Barker was now straining to keep Palin in check. She was surprisingly athletic for her age, and he'd finish her off with his weapon, but it was still in his trouser pocket, and he couldn't risk freeing his grip on the chain.

A sudden flash of inspiration came to Palin, and she lunged her left hand into her jacket, flicking the taser on and ramming it into Nigel's groin. "Aaargh!" Nigel yelled, temporarily loosening his grip on the chain; Sarah knocked him backwards, then reached for her hunting rifle. With no time to think, Nigel grabbed a large tree branch on the ground and brought it down with full force; there was a sickening crunch sound as the jagged wood splintered into the raw flesh of Sarah's face and chest, causing more speckles of blood to erupt from her body. Nigel, his mind now in autopilot, continued to hit her again and again with the branch, until she had finally stopped screaming.

It was only when he put the branch, that what he had just done hit him completely. A nauseous Nigel threw up on Sarah's body, and he was kneeling on the ground, quivering. Yes, he was a woman-hating chauvinist, he was bitchy to the Top Model girls, but this was a completely different matter. He wouldn't have killed anyone, not even CariDee from Cycle 7, who had pointed out his closet fetish of taking it from the back.

"You had to do what was necessary, Nigel," he assured himself. "Kill or be killed. She wouldn't have hesitated to shoot you, you'd do great." He took a deep breath and got on his feet. "C'mon, Miss Jay. The others would've heard the commotion here, we have to go."

"Fucking bitches!" Miss Jay shrieked as he limped off, his arm around Nigel. "Fucking serves them right. And too bad, because that Palin bitch was damn fierce too." Nigel pretended to nod his head in sympathy; his Top Model alliance with Miss Jay had been one of convenience, he needed protection as his pocket cyanide spray was hardly useful, and Miss Jay at least had a gun. But he knew that the other man's histronics and attention-seeking tactics would ensure the eventual demise of their team, Jay had already failed to finish Sarah Palin and nearly paid the price for it. Now, with a rifle in his hand, Nigel could afford to go it alone, and he might have to break the team up soon, even if that meant killing off Jay.

Nigel considered his options as the duo walked away from the scene of carnage, unaware that Dick Cheney's eyes, a vivid blue in a sea of flesh and blood, were now barely open, grateful that he was still alive, even if barely so. "Thank you, Lord," he whispered hoarsely.

--

_Sarah_ is dead. Dick is still alive but with very severe burns all over, Jay has substantial injuries from bullets in the right hand and left calf and Nigel's balls hurt, but he's otherwise fine. Dick will take the taser, and Nigel will take the chain and hunting rifle. Also, Dick's flamethrower is no more.


	8. Day 4a

**DAY 4(A)**

Dick Cheney vs. Rachael Ray

Rachael Ray strolled through the woods, talking very loudly to the cameras. "Hey everyone! So I was in Georgia a few days back and we went hunting for Coloured persons. Isn't that the cutest thing ever? My host and his sister-slash-wife did also teach me some delicious recipes though. Hopefully I can find the right ingredients around here so I can teach them to you, the viewer at home -"

She stopped, her jaw dropping with delight when she saw Dick Cheney's crisp body lying on the ground. "Ahhh that's it! That's awesome. OK, today we're going to make yet another tacky dish of themed food: Southern-style barbecued human ribs! That sounds DELISH, doesn't it? They say it's from the time when the KKK used to roast black people alive. OK, so we've got a be-yeautiful slab of nice roasted human meat already, just look at the consistency, very good! It's a bit burnt, but it'll do. If you have to prepare the meat yourself, put it on a spit and stick it in your oven for 10 minutes at 220F. If you want it medium rare like this then 5 minutes will do."

Rachael was startled when Dick suddenly struggled to lift his head off the ground;. "I'm not - dead..."

"OHH! Oh. My. God. You know what people, you have to make sure your meat is DEAD before you serve the dish, if not there could be quite a mess! For a shortcut, I use this method!" She took out a frying pan and soundly battered Dick Cheney in the head with it. Dick Cheney slumped back onto the ground again, his brain completely fucked up by this point. "Unh... Unh..."

"OK, now for the marinade. You know, my maternal grandmother, Italian of course, used to make a variant this dish with any annoying Irish neighbors they had around, but she used spices like rosemary and thyme. This time though, for extra Southern flavor, I use this: TABASCO! My dad's side is Cajun and so we ate TONS of this stuff when I was little, so much so that I had Tabasco-scented farts! AHAHAHAHAHA!" She paused to catch her breath and then continued. "If I had EVOO, that's extra virgin olive oil in case you didn't hear the phrase that I had repeated ad nauseum, hahaha, I'd slather a crapload around it just 'cause, but I don't, so Tabasco will have to do."

She put on a glove, opened the large bottle of Tabasco and let a bit drip onto her hands. "What you want to do is make sure that the meat is really seasoned and flavourful, for maximum taste. So you have to just very slowly but firmly rub it in... Like this..." And then she smeared the Tabasco into Dick Cheney's wounds, her fingers making vigorous circular motions. If Dick Cheney had any more strength left in his vocal cords, you would her him scream as the fiery chemicals in the sauce reacted with whatever nerves he had left in his body, but it only came out as a whimper which Rachael dismissed as sounds of nature.

After 10 minutes of rubbing Tabasco, Rachael decided that the rubbish makeshift recipe she'd come up with was sufficient. "OK, so once the marinade is done, just leave the dish to stand for an hour or so and then carve it up into serving portions, preferably with a chainsaw! Alright, I'll just leave this alone but when we come back, more healthy goodness with recipes on mushrooms and EVOO! That's extra virgin olive oil, by the way..."

With that, Rachael walked briskly away. Whenever they taped The Rachael Ray Show, she had always eaten pre-made food stuffed with oil, salt and MSG, to avoid throwing up on eating one of her actual recipes; this explained her greasy complexion and unhealthy hair, which tended to fall out often. She wasn't going to risk throwing up in front of the cameras.

--

Dick is now in severe shock and does not have long to live. Rachael's Tabasco bottle is now 2/3rd full.


	9. Day 4b

**DAY 4**

Dick Cheney vs. Lisa Scott-Lee

"Hi everyone! It's Lisa, I love you all loads! Muah!" Lisa Scott-Lee was on her fakest, most happy behaviour, blowing kisses at the camera for the 5 fans she had out there, who had not defected from her desperate famewhoring. She tried to do a little jig and twist, despite the fact that whatever dance steps she had gleaned were from the 'easy-to-dance' Steps routines. Lisa did a little spin, only to trip on a rock and bang her head into a tree. "Oh shit - I mean, oops! Let's try that again!" she chirped with a barely-concealed grimace.

It was under such a circumstance that Lisa stumbled on Dick Cheney. She tried to hide her astonishment by proclaiming in a cheerful tone, "Hey! My name is Lisa Scott-Lee! You may remember me for my time in Steps and 4 UK Top 40 singles! It's a shame that the UK doesn't appreciate my talent, but maybe if I sing for you -"

"Just... help me... you stupid woman." Dick gasped.

"Oh! No problem. But how?" Lisa thought for a while. "I know, I'll cheer you up! Tell you what, I'll sing you my UK #6 single Lately! It's my highest charting song, in case you didn't know."

Dick Cheney thought about his current circumstances. He had been burnt by fire, experimented on by Rachael Ray, and now he was to be subject to the horrid singing voice of some ancient-looking bitch. He was starting to wish he had died in the heat of the flamethrower instead.

Lisa opened her mouth, and what came out was an extremely off-pitch version of Lately:

_"It seems like lately... Something's coming over me baby... A feeling that's been driving me crazy... No one turns me on like you do when I'm with you it seems like..."_

Lisa had always lip-synched during her performances, and without the help of recording studio technology, the true quality of her vocals were exposed. To try and make the situation a little less awkward, Lisa shook her body in a 'sexy' manner, in what was a surreal resemblance to The Chicken Dance.

Dick was experiencing the spectacle in utter shock; it was so appallingly ghastly, it was almost... funny. He couldn't help but laugh hysterically, his frame shuddering, the laugh coming out like a wheeze, but Lisa could still tell what he meant despite the messed up facial features.

Then, there was the widening of his pupils: Lisa looked on derisively as Dick's hands trembled, trying to reach for his chest. "My... heart..."

He had laughed so much, he had over-exerted himself; in the weak state he was in, his heart, the veteran of several surgeries as it was, could not take it any longer. He was hyperventilating, his face grotesquely distorted.

With a snort, Lisa kneeled down, only to pick up the taser beside him. She then turned her back and continued on her trek across the island. "You didn't like my music anyway," she shouted. "Bugger off you old wanker."

In his dying breaths, Dick had his hand reached out, a final plea from help: then, he could take it no more, and he felt himself engulfed in the darkness.

Any other place would be a better place for him now.

--

_Dick_ is dead. Lisa will take the taser.


	10. Day 5a

**DAY 5**

Donald Trump + Rush Limbaugh vs. Michelle Heaton

Michelle Heaton was man hungry. Not only that, she was fame hungry as well. She missed the clicking of the paparazzi cameras so much, it was strangely conceivable that she had led her life after the ITV show Popstars in sole pursuit of more tabloid space. She had bested that smug bitch, her former sister-in-law Lisa Scott-Lee, in terms of income, propelling her out of the income level of 'welfare recepient' to 'actually being able to feed a kid with instant noodles'. And then her band Liberty X broke up and all Michelle had going for her was getting her boobs out for Page 3 of the Sun. That, and whoring her marriage with Andy Scott-Lee out in the tabloids. But she was a slut who couldn't resist other men, and the tabloid-worthy value of her marriage was going downhill anyway. Some people may find it all very off-putting but hey, a girl's got to pay the bills.

The horny glamour model was now on the prowl for fresh meat, hoping to spread more whoring pics of herself with other guys in the mags. She tried to walk in as much of a seductive manner as she could, making sure her heaving bosom would rise and fall with each step. If she couldn't hook up with anyone on the island, at least she could get more work in FHM after she got out of Celebrity Death Island.

Then jackpot. In the distance stood 2 geriatric gentlemen, in animated conversation over property and politics. She gave a shrill whistle, causing them to turn their heads and stare at her. "Yoo hoo!" she shouted cheerfully as she continued her sexy walk towards the men.

How could anyone not recognise Donald Trump? The Donald, his mullet, his womanising ways, his money. 'Ah, this would be perfect for me," Michelle thought. There was some other idiot standing beside him, Michelle only read The Sun, The Daily Star and any other tabloids in search of pictures of herself on a regular basis, so she had no idea who he was, but she surmised that if he was in the company of the Donald, he had to be important.

And right she was. The man was none other than motormouth nutjob Rush Limbaugh, who could only eye her from head to toe, half filled with lust and half filled with valiant self-restraint and wariness towards this woman dressed like a hooker.

"Ah! I wouldn't mind some female company around," Donald was well pleased. "If you don't know who I am, you're a failure at life. Now, who may you be?"

"The name's Michelle Heaton, babes. It's nice to meet you," she gushed, giving him a wet kiss on the left cheek.

"Michelle, you know you're a beautiful woman, don't you?" Donald laughed appreciatively.

"I'm fit and I know it, mate," Michelle did her best attempt at a seductive wink, and then unbuttoned her shirt to reveal more of her ample cleavage: the Donald could not help but lose himself in the sight. A disgusted Rush could only shake his head in disapproval.

Donald Trump saw Michelle Heaton as tits on legs. He wasn't interested in women romantically, at least not for very long anyway. Despite his constant ego projection on TV he knew he wasn't hot, but his money drew the gold-digging whores like Kathreya Kasisopa to cookies. He'd take full advantage of her, then find some excuse to dump her aside. Possibly kill her. In the meantime, he was getting whatever snatch he could.

Michelle smiled disarmingly. She knew she was on her way to something good. Donald Trump was no fool, but she was going to use him and outplay him as best as she could. She was however wary of that other fool who was tagging along with Donald, she knew he'd be jealous, maybe she'd have to seduce him later to keep him satisfied. But in the meantime, it was game on with Trump.

Rush was wary of the new intruder. Donald was a great friend as a Republican and whatnot, but his weakness for women was legendary. He had to suss out this bitch and her motives, and hopefully she wouldn't hamper their progress in the game. "We'll see," he muttered, standing by the side as he watched Donald fondle Michelle.

--

Michelle has now joined up with Donald and Rush.


	11. Day 5b

**DAY 5**

50 Cent vs. Kanye West

"Hey nigga!" 50 Cent yelled in a slur. "You betta show yo self! Don't be a pussy!"

50 was going to crush Kanye West like a little bug. He was built like a brick, a true street kid who was gangsta and all that. The metal crowbar in his right hand was gripped so firmly that he could almost feel it deform. 50 had spent day and night prowling through the forest, looking to kill his rival in no time. Kanye was probably huddled in a corner experiencing life without blankets or heaters, he scoffed to himself. Who did that punk think he was? He actually had a life that was relatively un-fucked-up, from some normal suburban town. This was a dude with no street cred, and 50 couldn't respect that.

Where you at, white boy? Betta come out now, bitch!" He knew that as much as Kanye was an arrogant prick, he had always been insecure about not being from the 'hood. Calling another black person 'white' was probably one of the worst insults imaginable.

Meanwhile, Kanye struggled to contain his anger, his hold tightening on his shotgun. 50 C.unt was this lunkhead with obvious anger management issues, and he was a talentless broad-banging waste of space. The level of talent 50 had was nowhere near Kanye's, while Kanye was sampling Chaka Khan and framing his hip-hop with more highfalutin artistic aspirations and political statements, 50's 'songs' were all about banging big-titted, big-assed broads while high on crack, gang fights and being a 'survivah'. Kanye was smarter, and he was better; he had outsold 50, and he was going to make his point once and for all.

BANG!

The bullet from the shotgun ripped into 50 Cent's left hand, causing him to roar in rage and pain. He spun around to face Kanye, whose face had gone pale with fear. Kanye wasn't 'gangsta' enough or in any case, a good enough shot to drive a fatal pellet into 50's vital areas.

50 Cent was an animal; he was a big dumbass, but never, ever try to take him down and feel. He was going to make his survival experience in the ghetto count

"Yous betta RES-PECT!" yelled 50 Cent as he smashed his hamburger-sized right fist into Kanye, re-fracturing the skull he had injured in a car crash. "Ahhh! Bloody muthafucka!" Kanye tumbled onto the forest floor squealing in pain, holding his broken jaw with his right hand, blood dripping steadily from his mouth. "Please..." he slurred through the salty taste of bone and blood.

"Now you're begging fo' mercy, bitch? No 'mo of that. I'mma teach you a lesson, you'll neva fo-get!" Like a piece of heavy-duty machinery, 50 Cent's abnormally muscular crowbar-wielding right arm swung down on Kanye West, delivering a world of pain to Kanye's ribcage. The hits came again, again and again, all the time while Kanye was sobbing and yelling from his injuries. After some time, Kanye was left gasping for air, his time soon to be up. 50 was about to hit Kanye for one last time, then he withdrew his arm and wrested the shotgun from Kanye's hand instead.

"Now lemme finish yous off, ghetto style. I'mma show you how to holda gun, yeah, not like a pansy!"

BANG!

A bullet, right through Kanye's forehead, above the nose; Kanye's eyes widened, like a cartoon character from Looney Tunes, and then he slumped backwards, head rolled to face another side, never to take another breath.

"That'll teach you, you betta respect my cred, 'cause I'ms 50, bitch!" screamed 50 Cent.

--

_Kanye_ is dead. 50 has a bullet embedded in his left arm and it'll be unusable soon; he gets the shotgun.


	12. Day 6

**DAY 6**

Miley Cyrus vs.Tara Gilesbie

i got up from my sleep, i had dug a grave to sleep in (geddit? cuz im a vampire n vampires r supposed to be ded) n i was werin black n pink ribbins in my heir wif a black jacket that had a blody red pentegram on each boob n a tight corset wif black n pnik lace and a leather miniskirt wif slits on da sides wif black hi heelz and black an red fishnet stockings an dere was black lipstick red eyeshadow red eyeliner n white foundation on ma face.

im bi n so r all my frenz, im not lezbian (ew) but i like watching hot goff boiz makin out. im not related to gerard way but i wish i wuz cos hez a major fucking hottie! i play ina band called Bloody Gothic Rose 666 and were all Satanists, we drank each others blood n the boyz would put there thingie into my you-know-what n id get big organismz lyk i screm "OH SATAN" n then theyd put there huge thingies into each otha n it was sooo hawt. we were all very happy until tragdey strook.

one day my girlfriend (EW NOT IN THAT WAY OK) ebony was tolkin to me. enoby was veri beutiful n she had gren eyes from satan as she alwayz used to say n i rebmember she had ravn blak hair and she was wearin hot leatha shorts n a good charlotte t shirt wif holes in it tt showd of her pale sikn n black eyeliner black lisptik n blac eyeshadow n whit foundatin. she also hed a vail of blood around her neck like Angelina Jolie only angelin was a prep slut n ebony waz goffik.

"hey enoby sed i hv a secrete to tell u tara."

"ok i sed.

"will u promizz not to get angry or anythin enoby said.

"yes i wont i sed.

dere were tearz in enobys eyes "i liek miley cyrus"

"WHAT" i scremed my best fren was in luv with a prep!!1

"i lyk hanna montana i think shez cute.'

i was relly angry n i shooted "GET AWAY FROM ME U FUCKKIN GROSS LESBO PREP BITCH" n den i cried tearz of blood. an i saw enoby cry too, but she likd a prep so she waz ded.to.me.

actully it was evn worse, ma previouz boyfren beside justin, his name wuz thomas but i call him memphisto, i luv him so much i still cut hart shapez on ma arms evry day in memry of him, i had to brake up wif him bcos of tt stupid b itch miley cyrus too.

"Tarra he said do u watch hannah montana."

"ew no tts for preps i sed. i watch da exorcist n suprenatual (jansen apples is soo hot but HES NOT A GOTH!)"

"i fink miley cyrus is hawt' he sed deprezzedly.

"WHY DA FUCK DOES EVERYON LIKE MILEY CYRUS" i scremed wif tearz of blood gothically stremin down ma face "FIRST ENOBY N NOW U TOO. DIS STUPID PREP BITCH IS BE STEALIN ALL MA FRENZ" den i cut myself n drank my blood n i swore i wold kill miley cyrus.

"Helloo! Is it me or is this place emptier than a cow anus that just took a shit?" Miley Cyrus twanged in her inbred southern accent, skipping happily around, throwing out stupid southern-style cliches. "Man, it sure stinks out here! It's almost as bad as Demi Lovato in Camp Rock!" she added.

The sight of bubbles floating up into the air caught her eyes. "Oooh, pretty!" she gasped, and not thinking for a moment why the hell there were bubbles randomly appearing, she ran towards their source. "Oh my God hey let's like totally hang out or smething -"

BRRRT! BRRT! A spray of bullets were blasted into Miley's legs, and she tumbled onto the wet soil, her limbs no longer cooperative. She screamed in terror, "WHOEVER DID THIS YOU BETTER COME OUT, OR I'M GONNA KICK YOUR BUTT LIKE A PRETZEL IN GEORGE BUSH!"

Tara Gilesbie emerged from the shade, a bubble-making machine in one hand and an uzi in the other, "HA i tricked u u stupid prep bitch now DIE!" Tara yelled. "IM GONNA MAKE U PAY FR GETTIN ALL MA GOFF FRENS ON HANNAH MONTANA!"

"Get away from me, freak!" cried Miley, "You're uglier than Clay Aiken run over by a two-tonne truck!"

"HOW DAER U INSULT MA GOFFIKNESS!" howled an enraged Tara. "NOW B PREPERED TO C WUT A VAMPYRE CAN DO! HAHAHAHAHA!"

"SWEET NIBLETS!" Miley screamed as a hard metal poker slammed into her neck with a sickening crack, her face frozen in a spastic expression typical of her acting on Hannah Montana. Tara then took out her wooden stake, plunging it straight into Miley's heart, as blood sprayed out of the older girl's mouth, tainting the grass a sparkly red. A satisfied Tara gathered her opponent's blood into a black plastic water bottle with Amy Lee's image on it. The blood of her worst enemy, now vanquished, would be excellent sustenance. Draw energy from your opponents, as they say. She then usd the remaining blood to scrawl '666' on Miley's forehead. "U HV BEEN OWNED BY SATANISTS!" she cried in triumph.

--

_Miley_ is dead. Tara will take Miley's weapon, a banjo.


	13. Day 7

**DAY 7**

Donald Trump + Rush Limbaugh vs. Michelle Heaton

Donald Trump was snoring heartily away under a tree, his X-rated dreams focused on the new girl. So far, she had let him feel her up everywhere, even the naughty bits: and she was liking it as much as he did. Tomorrow morning, he thought, he'd push the envelope a bit, see where was the furthest he could get: It was always good to nail some snatch once in a while.

He was rudely awoken by a violent shaking, and he opened his eyes to stare straight into Michelle Heaton's boobs. 'Ready for some action, love?" she whispered breezily.

"Ohh, oh yes," moaned a groggy Trump, with no time to react as Michelle forced herself onto him, nibbling at his neck, then the collagen-plumped lips locked into his, making out, causing him to drown in his hormones. As the couple engaged in passionate French kissing, Michelle inched her left hand rather incongrulously to Donald's neck, loosening the tie around his neck. She let the silk tie slip to the ground, then proceeded to begin unbutton his shirt. Trump had his hands on Michelle, trying to pull the straps of her dress, but she said, "Now, now, not so soon," then pushed his hands back. "Don't be naughty," she murmured, tying his hands up with the tie.

Trump had the strangest feeling that something was amiss, but he decided to banish the thought in the heat of the moment. Michelle was all over him, there was no room to breathe, no room to act, under the stuffy heat of the tropical night, nature was calling.

Or so he thought, but Michelle had other plans. She untangled herself from Donald, but with her face still very near to his: Donald could smell the alcohol and perfume reeking from her body. "I've got a surprise for you," Michelle winked.

"What's it, naughty girl?" Donald gave a little laugh, sounding a bit out of breath.

"It's a proper big one," she gushed, and then from behind a dress took out a giant vibrator. She forced it right into Donald's throat, faster than you could say "You're fired". The standard issue one found in the supply bag was only the size of a pencil, and hence quite a disappointment. In her pack, though, she found a more substantial device, and had plotted. She didn't have enough strength to keep hitting someone with a rock or a tree branch, and in any case she wasn't going to ruin her nails.

"I hope you like it, sweetie," purred Michelle. "Come on, take it."

The Donald was gagging on the device, eyes wide open in rage and struggling desperation. His forehead was wet with sweat as he struggled to be free of his bondage. "Sorry it had to end this way," Michelle sighed, her voice hinting at just the slightest bit of sympathy, "You were lovely too. But you'd have died from one of my STDs anyway." The buxom Geordie pressed her weight against him, pinning him onto the ground.

As the Donald breathed his last and finally kicked the bucket, a satisfied Michelle withdrew the vibrator from his mouth. Stealthily, she took off her high heels and ran to Donald's pack, rummaging through it for his weapon. "Ah, this will do," she smiled in satisfaction.

"What are you doing?" demanded a voice behind her. Rush Limbaugh was standing over Michelle, a revolver in his right hand. "I'm warning you, no monkey business here! I'm a Republican and I can damn well make sure to send a whore like you back to Hell."

Michelle said nothing; a split second, nothing was said or done, then she flung herself to the right, just in time to hear the lovely bang of the revolver. "Oh, bollocks! Me ma'am's got a better aim than 'at, you bloody tosser!" she yelled. She scrambled to her feet, carrying both her own and Donald's packs, half-running half-stumbling away from Rush, who was rapidly firing the revolver. Bullets zinged to her left and right, and she screamed when one of them hit a backpack she was carrying. She jumped into the bushes nearby, one of Donald's weapons in her left hand.

She could hear Rush's footsteps, he was walking towads her, and then she counted to herself: one, two...

Three. And with that she hurled the grenade, its pin undone, straight into Rush's path. Rush was momentarily frozen, then he tried to retreat, hands behind his head, but it was too late.

BOOOM!

The blast caught Rush and sent him crashing, with shrapnel raining down on him. "Sorry about that, mate!" Michelle cried as she ran away as fast as she could, thinking about where to go and who to target next. Mission accomplished, at the very least. She left a bloody, coughing Rush, who was paralysed by his injuries. "If only..." he cursed under his breath.

--

_Donald_ is dead. Rush has severe burns. Michelle will take Donald's grenades.


	14. Day 8

**DAY 8**

50 Cent vs. Victoria Beckham

"Oh my GOD. This is the worst reality show ever. I could've appeared on Dancing with the Stars or something but nooo..." Victoria Beckham took another sip of her can of Coors Light. "They don't even have chardonnay here!"

Victoria was dressed in a Versace dress, which she had somehow managed to still look hoochie in by having it so short, it showed off just a tiny bit of her underwear. She was stretching lazily on the grass, planning to spend yet another day sunning herself. For the most part, killing was for plebians like the other 3rd-rate Z-lebrity trash that were running around the UK. She was way above that since her tenure in the Spice Girls and especially after her marriage to David Beckham. Admittedly, she'd pay a fortune to see the likes of Rebecca Loos disembowelled inside out though.

The sound of a twig snapping nearby made Victoria jolt; someone was going to spoil this rich bitch's party. Very slowly, she stood up, preparing to fight if she should. "I hope all that time with my personal trainer helped..." she prayed.

"Nothin's gonna save you now, bitch." came the loud slur of 50 Cent's voice, as he appeared before his eyes, shotgun in hand. Victoria was speechless, frozen in fear.

They were of such different origins; 50 a gangsta from the hood, Victoria some ordinary bourgeois girl. Ironically they were united in the fact that they were rich, tacky and had no other reason for being famous.

"Say your prayers, bitch," smirked 50, aiming the shotgun right at her heart.

BANG!

"Aargh!" screamed Victoria as a bullet went right into her right boob, causing the flesh in it to rip apart. But it was not just blood that leaked out; a viscous, pale-coloured liquid was oozing out of the wound as well; the bullet had been stopped by her saline breast implants.

"Thank God for my boob job!" Victoria screeched triumphantly, then grimaced when her chest was still hurting. "You've bloody messed with my dress, and hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!"

50 raised his gun to fire it again, but with a swift motion Victoria hurled a stiletto at him. The shoe pierced him in the right hand, a fine razor blade attached to its heel. 50 bawled in pain, his hand dropping the gun in a reflex reaction. Like a red flag to a bull, the pain stimulated the emotion of rage in 50, and he lunge forward in full, irrational force. Victoria retrieved her razor-garnished stilettos, and quickly stabbed 50 with them, once in the face and the other close to his heart.

"AAAH YOU FUCKING BITCH!" 50 yelled, as Victoria then thrusted the stilettos at his groin and abs. Another blow to the side of the neck then sent him reeling, collapsing to the ground.

"Now for the grand finale. Watch my fierce walk!"

She put on her stilettos in record time, as would happen if you were a busy superstar with a penchant for the high heels, and then she started stomping all over 50 Cent. She made sure the stilettos stabbed all the way into 50's hands and arms, then the legs and ass, all over the back, and all the while 50 screamed, "STOP IT BITCH!", blood flowing freely from his mouth and wounds. Victoria was delighted to hear the annoying rapper's pleas. "That's not gonna make me stop, you know!" she shouted, as 50's yells were gradually reduced to a whimper, breathless moaning.

Victoria soon got sick of stomping around in the heels; even someone as accustomed to stilettos as she was found it tiring. "Time to finish this once and for all," she murmured, and so her stiletto-clad feet stomped down as hard as she could onto 50's neck and skull. There was a crunching sound as vertebrae and brain matter gushed out with the red, red blood.

"That'll teach that classless piece of trash a lesson," she laughed, staring satisfiedly at her handiwork. It was a better cardio workout than any pilates exercise she had ever done.

--

_50 Cent_ is dead. Victoria's right breast is blown to bits; she will take the shotgun and crowbar.


	15. Round 3 Celebrity Bios

**CELEBRITY BIOS**

**Ashlee Simpson** has become a cult figure for her lip-synching incident on Saturday Night Live. She later claimed that she had 'acid reflux', in which case she really shouldn't be singing at all. Actually, she just shouldn't sing at all, period. Otherwise, Ashlee's talents include constantly changing her hair colour and being a role model to 12-year-old poser girls all over the world.

**Chris Crocker **is perhaps America's answer to being 'the only gay in the village' a la Daffyd from Little Britain. Well, if Daffyd had access to YouTube he'd be posting his whore pics and queeny antics on 'em as well. Famous only for some stupid Britney video where he cries, it's full of self pwn. He also claims his homosexuality is 'known but never fully accepted' in his hometown: we can see why. Please, Chris Crocker, leave us alone.

**Joe Jonas** is 1/3rd of Disney pop sensation Jonas Brothers, otherwise known as the Jonas F.ags to anyone over 13 and/or male. It was also recently publicised that the 3 of them wear purity rings, but we all know how Justin and Britney ended up anyway. The Jonas Brothers are guilty of bombarding our airwaves with nauseatingly saccharine ditties, sung in what can only be described as a castrato. The current write-up as it is only talks about the Jonas brothers as a monstorous Hydra-esque entity because the man on the street really doesn't fucking care about the difference between the 3, but if you must know, Joe is the middle sibling.

**Kathy Griffin** is an old hag whom tons of gays on the Interwebs seem to think is funny. So she might be, but let's be realistic here: Her personal life is pretty fucked up as it is. Kathy is never one to shy away from the spotlight (and controversy), having at various stages offended the Catholic Church, Disney and the producers of The View (though it might be argued that many things offend The View, in any case). She can previously be heard cracking jokes about many, many of her fellow contestants on Celebrity Death Island: it remains to see if she has the same temerity to confront them face-to-face.

**Kevin Federline** was part of a string of low-life husbands to stupid female celebrities who didn't know better; as Britney Spears's backup dancer, his ratty-faced charms were alluring to the pop diva, who married him and allowed him to indulge in his wannabe-rapper aspirations. To no one's surprise, the couple broke up after 2 years, the real mystery being how Britney Spears was idiotic enough to marry him in the first place. Sadly, it actually appeared in recent times that he was a more fit parent than Britney, although Britney's doing better for herself now, having started to reclaim at least an iota of respectability, and thank fucking God for that too.

**Lance Bass** was known as the gay-faced one in 'N Sync, and besides media speculation about his sexuality, the only other noteworthy news was his failed attempt to become a space tourist. Then he came out to the world on People magazine, and the world shrugged its shoulders and muttered "whatever". Some Clay Aiken fans, in light of their idol's recent, completely shocking, coming-out on People as well, have already decided that Lance would be a good match for Clay, ignoring the fact that it makes as much sense as thinking Hugh Hefner and Paris Hilton should copulate just because they like the opposite sex. Well, maybe those 2 would, but let's just try and block that image from our minds.

**Paris Hilton**, otherwise 'famous for being famous', is best known for her piece of performance art colloquially known as '1 Night in Paris'. She has also starred in various other media publications such as The Simple Life, that Carl's Jr. ad where she washes a Bentley and eats a hamburger in some skank swimwear, as well as having pictures of her ugly mug and snatch posted on the Net. Perhaps the nadir of Hilton's life was when she was forced to serve a prison sentence that no amount of money or medical excuses could save her from, and she also claimed to have found God in the process. Despite this proclaimed change in behaviour, many people's #1 wish remain seeing her die a gruesome death like she did in House of Wax.

**Tyra Banks**, former Victoria's Secret model, is now most well-known for her TV shows Tyra and America's Next Top Model, both paradigms of trainwreck television. Tyra often tries to act ghetto in a desperate bid to show off her 'acting' skills, failing miserably each and every time to make anyone take her seriously. From acting like a very bad drag queen to her spastic gesticulations at the judging panel, it remains to be seen what camp theme or schtick Tyra can pull out of her big booty for Celebrity Death Island.

**Charlotte Church**, or 'Chavette Church', first started out as a beautiful, fresh-faced teenage girl with the most tremendous voice. Her vocal chords degraded by cigarettes and booze, Charlotte can now be seen bloated and washed up on some fourth-rate talk show, giving birth to more children and putting up with her cheating boyfriend. Charlotte has a pretty strong sense of entitlement and believes she knows more about music than the entire judging panel of The X Factor. So that might be true, but in any case it isn't something that's very hard to achieve.

**Pat Robertson** is a completely appalling excuse for a human being, a racist bigoted twat who has literally insulted every single minority group there is out there in the name of the all-loving God. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely enough, he has a massive following of brain-bleached idiots who truly believe that border-crossing Latinos are good only for target practice and that people who have undergone plastic surgery 'have eyes like Orientals'. A recent poll conducted has shown that 99 of the world at large would prefer Pat Robertson to 'return home to the Lord' on Celebrity Death Island.

**Peaches Geldof** is 19 years old and has a similar IQ level. Her full name, Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof, is rather Mary Sue-ish, which might actually be the best way to describe this vapid waste of space. Peaches fancies herself as rather smart and all that, having writen and produced many self-indulgent news articles and even a 'documentary' on Islam. Peach spends her time DJing, doing good, writing for the Guardian and looking like a crackhead, despite only being good at the last thing really.

**Rovilson Fernandez** is best known for annoying the shit out of non-Filipinos (and many Filipinos as well) on The Amazing Race Asia, Season 2, with his camera-mugging antics and complete arrogance and obnoxiousness. Sweet karma came when Rovilson, who is literally as dumb as a pile of rocks, stumbled at the final Roadblock, a flag challenge, thus costing his team the race. Despite this setback, Rovilson has still continued his famewhoring behaviour outside of the race in the Philippines, with the rest of Asia much relieved that they no longer have to witness this moron in action. Just so the audience knows, it took the producers ages to find a photo where he did not look like he was having an epileptic fit.

**Sienna Miller **will have you know that she is not a slut. This is despite the fact that she slept with Jude Law, who was married. And Balthazar Getty, who was also married. And let's not forget the countless others whom she probably blew in a coke-induced haze. She is despised by the citizens of Pittsburgh for having called their city 'Shitsburgh' while shooting a film there. A half-American, half-British wannabe whose existential crisis should relegate her to damning anonymity, if not for the fact that she was such a hated ho, though half of the people on celebrity blogs still don't seem to know who she is.

**Stephen Hawking** is one of the most brilliant minds of our generation, but perhaps more infamous in popular culture for his chair-ridden state and synthesised voice. His most well-known piece of work may be titled A Brief History of Time, but the dimensions of Celebrity Death Island in the grand scheme of things are very much real; it remains to be seen if his theoretical mind can overcome the very physical challenges posed.


	16. Day 9

**DAY 9**

Jay Alexander + Nigel Barker + Tyra Banks vs. Rachael Ray

"In a continuation of our theme on trashy Southern foods, we'll be making FRIED CHICKEN today!" yelped an overly-enthusiastic Rachael Ray, her voice and mannerisms resembling those of a hyperactive chihuahua. "First, you've got to have a chicken at hand, duh! You can usually buy the cheapest frozen chickens from Wal-Mart, or you could buy one of my overpriced Rachael Ray chickens, now bred on an alfalfa-and-wheat diet, from Whole Foods! If you still can't get those thrn you'll have to kill a wild chicken, like now, or at least steal one from your neighbour!"

She was in luck; a helpless wild chicken was rambling about, oblivious to its impending doom. Rachael strained to stretch the crossbow; with a twang, the arrow zipped across the air into the chicken's neck. Rachael then approached the squawking chicken, now flapping its wings manically as it lay on the ground, and stabbed it repeatedly with another arrow until it stopped moving.

"Now to prepare the chicken. If you caught your own chicken, you'll have to defeather it! Normally you've got to heat it, but I have something much more convenient at hand: hydrochloric acid!" She took out what looked like a medicine bottle. "Just a little bit will do because you don't want to accidentally burn anything more than the chicken! Hahahahaha!" She doused the chicken gently with the acid, letting the feathers disintegrate, until there was nothing but the bare skin. She then poured lots of water to wash off the acid. "You may still want a bit of the hydrochloric on the chicken though, it gives a sour tang! Like lemon! So I'll leave that up to you." With the supplied Swiss army knife, she started to hack away at the head and claws of the chicken, then carved it into nice chunks.

"OK! So we come to an important part - the marinade! For today's recipe, we want an 'authentic' flavour, like it came from some hick in the woods who can't afford even Wal-Mart stuff. For the marinade, I use a healthy dose of tree sap, some rabbit urine, a sprinkling of toxic mushroom spores and just a pinch of bat shit. Yum-O! Oh, of course! How could I forget TABASCO! It's like my EVOO now, that's extra virgin olive oil in case you didn't know..." Rachael mixed the ingredients together cheerily, adding a final splash of the spicy Cajun sauce for added kick. "Now we leave the chicken to soak in the DE-LICIOUS juices, and we need to start a fire!" An inspired Rachael then took out some leaves and twigs she had gathered; using the reflective metal base of her frying pan to refract the sun's rays, she managed to ignite a fire after some time, then poured some Coors Light over the fire to keep it burning comfortably. "You will want to heat some oil in it as well," she added, taking out a handkerchief. "Usually I use EVOO, yes that's extra virgin olive oil, but in this case I'll just collect the grease from my body!" She rubbed the hankerchief against her oily armpits, face and scalp, squeezing the contents onto the frying pan. "Finally, do the coating just before you deep fry the chicken chunks. I'm using bits of rotting fungus. You'll find that it's very crunchy! Now, we're good to go!"

5 minutes of frying later, the results somehow surpassed even Rachael's own expectations. "Oh my God! I totally wasn't expecting that," she admitted in a moment of honesty, "It smells delish!" She tipped the fried chicken onto a metal dish, just in time to hear the footsteps of an arriving group. "You see, it'll do great!" an excited Rachael whispered to the cameras, from her hiding spot in the shrubs.

"Oh my goodness! It's so great to run into you guys!" gushed Tyra Banks, "It reminds me of the time when I first started out in Paris, when my mom abandoned me there with 5 francs and a Cabbage Patch doll and I managed to survive with the help of a very kind stranger, though what happened between us was not supposed to be discussed..." Miss Jay was prancing around in agreement while Nigel Barker nodded his head.

The truth was that Nigel felt threatened by Tyra's presence. He had trouble tolerating Miss Jay as it was, the ghetto combo of Jay and Tyra would be too much to bear. Plus, black people always stuck together, and this made him feel threatened.

"Oh. My. GOODNESS. WHAT IS THAT SMELL?" screamed Tyra, whose nose had a penchant for sniffing out food, especially her favourite fried chicken and BBQ ribs. "DAMN!" she was jumping around like a rabbit on Speed when she saw the plate of chicken right in front of her eyes.

"Just as damn well, I'm starving," growled Miss Jay. Tyra had snatched a piece of drumstick and was about to chomp heartily into it, when Nigel interrupted her. "Wait, wait, just wait. I think we should just sit down and get ourselves a proper meal, don't you think? Like, some other fruits and stuff, it'd be fabulous." A reluctant Tyra nodded, she knew that she wouldn't be getting that many meals this good on the island. "Right, let's see if there are oranges around or something, they'll help keep my skin smooth," agreed Miss Jay, who started to walk away with Tyra in search of more food.

"I'll see if there's more water around to fill our bottles up. Don't wait up, guys!" yelled Nigel, watching warily as Miss Jay and Tyra's images grew further and further away. Once he was certain they were gone, he then took out the cyanide spray from the bag. His true motive for getting them away was to poison the fried chicken. Just a little spray would do the trick. His right hand shaking like crazy, he got ready to press on the spray...

Something was stopping him. He had killed someone before, yes, but Sarah Palin was a demented bitch who'd have done him in. He couldn't kill someone whom he was at least close to, not yet, even if they annoyed the shit out of him. He'd have to further suss out Miss Jay and Tyra before making his move, and right now they didn't seem close to flipping. Reluctantly, he threw the spray back into his bag and ran off to find the others.

"Now, now, people! I've always been an advocate of making your everyday food a bit adventurous, mainly by adding glaringly mismatching ingredients and hoping that I can pass this off as being 'bold'. Today, we'll add a little bit of unexpected Mediterranean flavour into what could be ordinary Southern-style fried chicken: almonds!" Rachael sneaked out from her hiding spot, reaching into Nigel's bag to pull out the item he had deposited. "PERFECT. This'll do. It's a bit strong but no doubt your guests will find it a different taste! A little is all the difference it makes, really!" She then proceeded to spray the fried chicken with liberal doses of cyanide. "Let's see what else I can find here," she murmured. She gave a little triumphant shriek when she found a bayonet in Tyra Banks's bag. "Great! Now it's so much easier to prepare food!"

Upon hearing signs of the others' imminent return, Rachael hastily made her retreat with her newfound booty. The Top Model alliance had retunred with booty of their own, an assortment of wild fruits overflowing in their hands. "That's it, I can't wait!" Tyra shouted, throwing her harvest of berries aside. "Tyra Banks is here to own this fried chicken, bitches!" she proclaimed, as she bit straight into a fat, oily, crunchy, juicy piece of fried chicken. She sank her teeth viciously into the delightful morsel, chewing on it happily. "Oh my goodness! This is even better than my momma's fried chicken, and I'll tell you it's hard to top your family's fried chicken recipe -"

In a sudden motion the chewed-up fried chicken sprayed out of her mouth, and her eyes rolled to the back of their sockets, body jerking in spasms. "Oh my God, she doesn't seem alright does she?" cried an astonished Nigel. "It's probably an act, she's really good don't you think?" retorted Miss Jay. "Right Tyra?"

Her mouth now foaming, Tyra had slipped beyond the point of consciousness, unable to hear their queries. "Oh my lord," Miss Jay gasped, staring in a shell-shocked manner at the spasming Tyra.

"Don't just stand there! Do something!" yelled an angry Nigel. "What the hell am I supposed to do, you tell me!" Miss Jay shouted in reply.

Meanwhile, Rachael was watching the entire scene unfold. "I've always said, be an adventurous eater!" she giggled. "Teehee! Right, time for a commercial break, but we'll be right back!" she laughed, sneaking away from the scene of her crime.

It wasn't long before Tyra Banks was fully slumped onto the ground, her lifeforce spent. Miss Jay and Nigel stared at each other, not saying a word.

Some time passed before Miss Jay spoke. "Did you put cyanide in the chicken?"

"What! Don't be ridiculous. It's not like I'm going to kill a friend and a colleague."

"I'm not so sure now. I don't know, just leave me alone," Miss Jay turned his back on Nigel, pondering. "That sick son of a bitch had to have killed Tyra," he thought. No one else he knew had poison in their possession. If worst came to worst, he'd have to deal with Nigel, right here, right now.

Meanwhile, Nigel was thinking about what had happened as well. Miss Jay was clearly aware that he had the cyanide, he could have well done it and then turned and accuse him. There was no window of opportunity, it would appear, but why on Earth was there fried chicken in the middle of nowhere, in the first place? There were too many unanswered questions.

"Look," sighed Nigel. "I don't know what you're thinking, but I feel like we should stick together. This fried chicken was just sitting here when we came, someone may have poisioned it already. Anyway, I'm not going to kill you, I'm really not," he raised his empty hands in an attempt to show his good intent. "Come on, we're only 2 people on an island with 23. We've got to work this out, but let's take our time at it."

Miss Jay only nodded slightly in agreement. He wasn't sure there'd be enough time before he himself died in another betrayal, but the current arrangement, as it was, would have to do.

--

_Tyra_ is dead. Rachael will take the bayonet.


	17. Day 10

**DAY 10**

Amy Winehouse vs. Charlotte Church + Lisa Scott-Lee + Peaches Geldof + Sienna Miller vs. Michelle Heaton

"So I was, like, at the Chivas party last weekend, yeah, and it was, like, proper blazing!" Peaches Geldof enthusiastically recounted to her fellow celebrities. "Sienna was there, and she hit on, like, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers I think! Isn't that right, Sienna?"

The haggard, weed-thin blonde shrugged. "I forget, I had like 7 vodkas, he sure was a proper fit shag though! Or it may be Hugh Grant you're talking about. There might have been 2 guys."

"Oh, you've got to be proper pissing me!" laughed Lisa Scott-Lee, who was happy to meet up with some old acquaintances, even if she was at the bottom of their pecking order: it went something like Sienna (who was already a Hollywood bottom-feeder), then Peaches, then Charlotte, and finally Lisa.

"So, how are things on your side recently?" asked a curious Charlotte Church.

"I'm so proud of my hubby Johnny!" exclaimed Lisa. "He's recently found a proper job as a bathroom janitor! We've upgraded from shopping at Tesco to Sainsbury's, and the power doesn't go out now. That ugly slapper though, Michelle Heaton, she's gone around spreading her legs to anything with a penis-shaped protrusion. Thank God poor Andy had the sense to dump her sorry arse. That woman, she's got absolutely no shame!"

"I know, dear!" cooed Charlotte. "If she wants to be a proper slut like Sienna," she said, ignoring a glare from her counterpart, "She totally shouldn't have gotten married in the first place."

"You know what it was all about, Charlotte dear, don't you? The headlines! The tabloid rags! Fancy telling those idiot reporters at OK! about their engagement! Before US, Andy's family! I think you would be proper pissed as well if you were me, I think you would."

In the meantime, Amy Winehouse was stumbling about by herself, swigging a near-empty bottle of Pinot Noir. "They tried to make me go to rehab..." she hicced, her feet tottering wildly on the grass as she sang her hit single, "But I said no... no... no..."

For the past 10 days, Amy had been mostly paralysed on the ground, indulging in nothing else but the imbibing of alcohol. She was so desperate for booze that she even drank her own ethanol-filled piss for a quick fix.

"Oh, look at what the ugly bus brought in!" squealed Sienna, as the other British girls encountered their drunkn counterpart.

"Oi, you ugly dog!" Peaches taunted, feeling the need tog et all high and mighty, "I knew you'd be proper useless as usual, like throwing up on like some sidewalk or what not. Why can't you proper like be a better person or something yeah? Do some good instead, like me, I'm like Bob Geldof's daughter but I want to like prove I'm proper better person than me dad. I DJ and I help out in like Lambeth and Africa and what have you not -"

"Oh, just SHUT up you fucking useless tit," snarled Amy, "You're doin' my 'ead in 'ere."

"Excuse me, like what did you fucking say?" exclaimed an angry Peaches. "I'll have you know, like, I'm a proper grown woman and all that -"

"Pleeease," sneered Amy Winehouse in her slur, "You're just your father's little fucking pet poodle. You're nothing without him. I've got fucking Grammies as it is, and what have you done? You play to some fellow chavs that leave when they hear your shit music. Let's face it, it'd make baby kittens kill 'emselves..."

"I will not have you talking to me in this way!" Peaches screamed. She lunged furiously towards Amy, who stumbled in a sidestep to her left and caused Peaches to lose her balance. In her alcohol-induced trance, Amy swung her heavy Pinot Noir bottle, braining Peaches squarely on the back of her head with it, sending her into a face-forward fall onto a great big, jagged, protruding tree branch on the ground. The branch entered Peaches's body and stabbed right into her right lung, causing her face to gape wide in agony as as the blodd either ran down the length of her body or dripped right down onto the earth. Death was in a matter of seconds. Amy Winehouse, in her drunken rage, was still kicking madly away at the corpse. "Fucking... bitch!" she shouted. "That'll... fucking... teach you... a lesson..."

"Oh my God, she killed Peaches!" Sienna gasped in horror. She quickly took out her weapon while the others were still staring falbbergastedly. "Game on, game fucking on, bitch." Without hesitation, she then fired off a shot from her tranquiliser gun.

TWAP! A dart hit Amy in her right ankle, causing her to slump to the ground, limbs gradually weakening. "Fucking... bitch... fucking... bitch..." she chanted in her suubconscious state, now sustained by both tranquilisers as well as ethanol.

"Now let me finish this sorry twat off," spat Sienna as she strode arrogantly towards Amy, thinking about aiming right at the heart.

She never quite got to finish what she intended to do, as a dull clunk emanated from her back. She spun around with a quizzical look on her face. "Charlotte? Lisa? Whose weapon -"

"RUN, SIENNA! IT'S A BLOODY GRENADE!" screamed Charlotte, and then the threesome had only time to leap before the device detonated itself, hurling them onto hard earth.

Sienna took a quick glance around: Charlotte and Lisa appeared dazed and shaken, but everyone was otherwise fine, save for some lacerations here and there. "Come on girls," she coughed amdist the thick smoke, knowing that they had been very lucky. "Let's get the hell out of here. It's too dangerous."

Michelle Heaton watched the group leave the scene, fuming more than a little inside. It had been such a great opportunity to take out those ugly cows, especially that Scott-Lee bint, who was slagging her off again. She had even fancied there was a good chance they were too wasted out of their minds to notice anything. No matter, there would be plenty of opportunities to strike again, they had not noticed who threw the grenade, and she still had some in her backpack. She also wasn't going to waste her energies on Amy, who was only a threat to complete peabrains like Peaches had been. Anyway, Amy was nowhere to be seen. Michelle got up and walked away, thinking about her next course of action.

Amy was left on her own, lying at the base of a very gentle slope: She had just rolled off before the explosion, and besides some scratches and the dart embedded in her leg, she was none the worse for wear. She felt nothing, in any case, in her happy, synthetic delirium. Lifting the wine bottle she had held so tightly throughout the ordeal, with considerable difficulty due to the chemicals in her system, she tipped its mouth gently towards hers, letting just that much more wine flow down her throat; trying to numb herself further.

--

_Peaches_ is dead. Everyone else besides Michelle has cuts and bruises, with Sienna having more serious lacerations. Amy will get Peaches's weapon, a bag of Ecstasy.


	18. Day 11

**DAY 11**

Kathy Griffin + Lance Bass vs. Pat Robertson

"Oh my days, Lance, this is fuck awful!" Kathy Griffin moaned as she and her friend trudged through the thick forest canopy. "This is worse than Celebrity Mole! At least we had Anderson Cooper to drool over then. He bloody makes me wet my pants!"

"Mmm, Anderson! What a sex god amongst men! I'd totally do him too! What about meee, though? Am I not good looking enough for you?" whined Lance Bass.

"I'd fuck you Lance dear, but you're gay. We're friends only. In any case, if you want to fuck me you aren't very gay, aren't you?"

"ALL the gays want to fuck you, Kathy!" gushed Lance.

"Yeah, no straight man would I guess," laughed Kathy bitterly, her tone half-serious. An earnest Lance, anxious to comfort his friend, wrapped his right arm tightly around Kathy's back. "Thanks, +#," replied Kathy, who was then feeling much better.

From a safe distance, Pat Robertson was watching the pair of sinners in their little ramble. A denouncer of God, and a gay man: It wasn't going to get better than this, he'd have to redeem them both. She wouldn't be telling Jesus to suck it, she'd be sucking Jesus off. As would her friend.

"It could be worse, really. Imagine if Paris Hilton were on here, she'd either be whining about the lack of Chanel stores around, or getting her clothes off for the camera! God I hope I don't run into some of those Hollywood nutjobs around here," Kathy continued.

Lance Bass nodded. "I think they'd seriously go all-out to finish you off."

"I'm not afraid though!" declared Kathy. "I've got a pretty kick-ass weapon as it is, and they'll probably die of stupidity before they find me anyway."

"Think you're confident against the power of the Lord?" boomed Pat Robertson's voice, momentarily startling the duo

"You! I've seen you on TV!" mocked Kathy. "You're that looney from The 700 Club who probably thinks global warming is from God farting!"

"I will not have you speak of the Lord in that manner, you infidel slut! Jezebel!" He then turned his attention to Lance. "A homosexual!" shouted Pat, waving his double-barrelled shotgun in the air. "My faith compels me to blast you into smithereens!"

"Don't do this, please. Don't make me use my weapon," pleaded Lance, who slowly withdrew a filled glass bottle from his bag; a piercing smell filled the air, one that brought out a deep feeling of dread in Kathy.

"Jesus loves all, even sinners, so it is never too late to repent! Renounce yourself, and I will spare your miserable lives."

"Well if Jesus loved us all he'd have given you a better-looking mug!" shouted Kathy in contempt.

"Don't say I didn't try to help!" snarled Pat as he pulled the trigger on the shotgun.

BANG! BANG!

In rapid sucession, the first bullet struck Lance in the neck, killing him instantly; Kathy could almost see it all in slow motion, as Lance was flopping down onto the ground like a spent rag doll; then the second bullet, it clanged against the cap of the bottle in Lance's left hand, releasing a spark that ignited the Molotov cocktail in a fireball.

"LANCE!" Kathy screamed as the flying glass shards cut into her cheeks, her heart sinking as she watched Lance's body being consumed in the flames. Pat Robertson could only laugh cruelly as sweet justice, as he saw it, was delivered. He smirked as the flames burned beautifully, on Lance, on the grass. He then raised his weapon, to finish off Kathy: only to find that she was now gone. Kathy had disappeared from his view; she had escaped under the cover of the explosion.

"This is business the Lord wants me to settle on another day," he mused. "Everything happens for a reason... Forgive me, Lord, and forgive this sinner before me, even if he has committed gross indecency. May he, in death, open his eyes to your merciful nature. Amen."

A heartbroken, infuriated Kathy watched from behind the citrus shrubs as Pat left. She was always outspoken against these fools and hypocrites, and for good reason: they were dangerous when powerful. Weapons of mass destruction, perhaps intended for good or at least neutral usage, but when filthy, corrupt people got their hands on them, and there always would be, then shit was going down. It was hard to fight such hatred and irrationality head on, for they only knew power, and she was going to have to work on something else if she were to have even the slightest shot at winning.

She was now in it for Lance, to make sure his death was not in vain. She was in it... for revenge.

--

_Lance_ is dead. Kathy has some cuts, mainly on her face. The Molotov cocktail is destroyed.


	19. Day 12

**DAY 12**

Kathy Griffin vs. Pat Robertson + Rush Limbaugh

"Wherever you are," Kathy screamed, "Come on out, you geriatric Jesus freak! I want to shove a fucking stick up your ass."

Pat Robertson strode out cockily, the double-barrelled shotgun gleaming in his wrinkled hands. "Let's make this quick, shall we?"

Kathy only gave a faint smile; so far, things were going according to plan. "It'll only be as quick as I allow it to be!" she shouted as she started to make her sprint, making sure to zig-zag so that Pat would have a hard time aiming at her.

POW!

A bullet caught Kathy's right calf: it threw her to a halt as she sprawled towards the ground, unable to move any more. "What the HELL?!" she cried. The bullet had hit her from the side, but Pat was to her back. Unless...

She tilted her head to the right, only to notice Rush Limbaugh in a prone position, a smirk on his face and a revolver in his hands.

"Never mess with God's army, you heathen," laughed Pat Robertson. "You thought you were smart, weren't you? The Lord smiles on those who are true."

"Don't fucking kid me..." Kathy gasped. "You're as Christian as Paris Hilton's vagina!"

"I don't think so. It's time to send you straight to Hell. Goodbye!"

BANG!

A final bullet, Pat made sure it went straight down the throat; silence, forever. He basked triumphantly in his moment of glory, as the blood seeped out of Kathy Griffin's big mouth. "Praise Jesus! You did great, Rush," he said to his ally. Their partnership had proven formidable enough to take down another of the infidels; in due time, he'd be able to clean the island of its sinful inhabitants. "Let's go for some more huntin'." he murmured as he helped his fellow Christian asshat, who was in a physically worse condition, up. "Hopefully we get to kill some Chinks or Mexicans."

Leaves rustled and crunched under Rush's limp feet as Pat dragged him away from the spot where Kathy died, with Rush holding onto his right arm like a crutch. He'd been lucky to run into Rush after he killed Lance, the other nitwits on the island feared them, and did not understand their total devotion to their beloved religion. Pat was hoping, that he had galvanised and inspired all his loving, faithful followers, in showing the power of God.

BOOOOM.

As Rush's shoe triggered the landmine that was right below it, the ground exploded from underneath him, the blast of energy, and shrapnel and rocks slicing through Pat & Rush, the flesh and bone pulverised and scattered into small, bloody particles, the feeling of Hell calling rising up from the legs, then eating, gouging, burning at the liver, heart, organs, then finally your mind loses it all and goes black forever, in a matter of 1 second or less.

If Kathy were still alive, she'd savour the revenge she had dealt with her mine, a game of her smarts against Pat's, one she would have won but for the uneven playing field she was thrown into.

The charred bodies hit the ground hard; the cameras whirred as the 3 mangled corpses lay on the soil, and the island glistened beautifully under the tropical sun, the fading wisps of smoke giving it a magical quality.

Then, the cut to the next scene.

--

_Kathy, Rush and Pat_ are all dead. All weapons are gone except for the double-barreled shotgun, which will be redistributed.


	20. Day 13

**DAY 13**

Chris Crocker vs. Joe Jonas vs. Kevin Federline

Joe lay by the side of a ravine, staring at the clouds after a thorough read of his pocket Bible, meditating in a sense. He missed partaking in wholesome family activities such as bible studies, getting 10 strokes of the whip for using the toilet without permission and having fun times with Father Johnson at the church. He and his brothers were brought up with good morals and whatnot, and Joe would not let temptation or hormones get the better of them. "I'm proud to be pure," he smiled as he glanced at the purity ring on his finger, gleaming under the sunlight. On the flipside, it was quiet around here, and there weren't many fangirls around. Joe was nervous around girls, let alone hordes of screaming retards worshipping at his feet.

In sheer bordeom, he flipped through his bag, which was resting on his abdomen, taking mental note of every item in it. A packet of Kleenex, a photo of him and his brothers, a bottle of Kool-Aid... his hands then came across a curious, white little packet, or rather a transparent pack filled with powdered particles.

It was cocaine. Joe knew better than to use it: he toyed briefly with the thought of consumption, the packet resting temptingly in his hands, before dismissing the thought. He got up, all ready to toss the packet of cocaine down into the ravine, when a loud coughing sound emanated from behind. He turned to see a cracked-out Kevin Federline, wielding a kitchen knife in his right hand. Joe instantly felt threatened by the older man, the tattoos on his arms and ear piercings were some seriously bad juju.

"Gimme that crack bitch," demanded Kevin Federline, his eyes red and puffy, teeth gnashing. "I need my fix of coke."

Joe frowned. "Cocaine isn't good for you. I was just going to throw it away."

"No, listen, punk, just give it to me okay? You cooperate, no one gets hurt."

"No. I'm not going to let you hurt yourself. Think about your children! They need you, and you can't give them the right support by getting all drugged out," Joe cried, hoping fervently that the standard text he had quoted from Christian Motivational Stories would help.

"Don't tell me what to do, bro. I'm a better parent than that slut Britney." laughed Kevin. "Now be a good boy and hand over that crack."

Joe felt himself waver a bit, filled with some fear about how messy it could all end up, but then he decided he should stand firm. "No. I'm not." He raised his left hand, throwing the packet of cocaine up into the air, over the edge.

Kevin Federline gasped; then, like a greedy hunter in dogged pursuit of his prey, he leapt for the bounty, and in the process knocked Joe Jonas off his feet with a great tackle, as he reached for the coke that was just out of his grasp, sending Joe tumbling into the ravine. "SHIT MUTHAFUCKA!" yelled K-Fed, who heard Joe utter a little scream just before his body slammed hard against the rocks on the bottom of the ravine. "Serves you right you little bitch!" he shouted. He was curled up, hands dug into his scalp, undergoing the sick feeling of withdrawl. "I NEED MY COKE GODDAMIT!" he howled, throwing his arms around in a desperate frenzy, "I SHOULDA GOT SOME MORE FROM BRITNEY WHEN SHE CAME TO SEE THE KIDS!"

"LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE BITCH!" a voice screamed. Chris Crocker swung his umbrella, hitting K-Fed in the neck. "This is for all the crap you did to Britney!" he continued as K-Fed now confronted him with a throroughly demented look in his eyes.

"Fuck you f.aggot!" Kevin Federline roared as the tip of the umbrella was shoved right through his left retina, the blood and pulverised eyeball dripping out of its socket. "I'm going to tear your balls out!" He stabbed his knife at where Chris Crocker's testicles would be, except that the area which he could impact was relatively small. Chris quickly deployed the umbrella such that Kevin's blade tore through its fabric, but its frame would limit his reach to Chris. He shoved the umbrella in Kevin's face, causing his opponent to temporarily lose focus. And then as Kevin prepared for a second attack, Chris quickly tossed the umbrella aside and got out his original weapon: a can of pepper spray. "Get away from me you freak!" he yelled, spraying the contents right into Kevin's eyes. "FUUUUCK!" K-Fed yelped, stumbling backwards and right off the cliff as well. Chris Crocker stared over the ravine, tears in his eyes as a raging, cursing Kevin made his descent, impacting against Joe Jonas's already battered corpse, then the back of his skull cracking open.

"THIS IS FOR YOU, BRITNEY!" shouted an ecstatic Chris Crocker. He was no longer just the useless fanboy on YouTube whom everyone laughed at. "Chris Crocker is IN THE HOUSE, bitches!" he added, doing a Z-snap with his right hand.

--

_Joe and Kevin _are dead. Joe's weapon (the pocket Bible) and Kevin's kitchen knife are lost. Chris's pepper spray is about half gone.


End file.
